


Hunters in the Night

by Viscount_Vampyre



Category: Alien vs Predator (2004), Aliens vs Predators Series - Various Authors, Predators (2010)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Africa, Edwardian Period, Gen, Hunters & Hunting, Suspense, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-07-15 19:39:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16069919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viscount_Vampyre/pseuds/Viscount_Vampyre
Summary: British Kenya 1900. A small village is repeatedly savaged by something in the nighttime. At first the local colonial officer believes it to be man eating lions and enlists the aid of a big-game hunter to track down and eliminate the beasts. Little do the men know that what they'll actually be up against is far, far, worse than any animal they've seen before.





	1. The Letter

 

Henry,

I’m sending you this letter because I need your help. Something has been going on in the village near my Colonial station. The natives are truly and utterly scared out of their wits. Something has been savaging them, and carrying men off in the middle of their sleep.

I have come to believe that it’s a lion or maybe even two lions.

I know that there’ve been many cases of lions plaguing our efforts to civilise this area of Kenya, but that aside, you know I’m no hunter. You however have told me over many a brandy of those ten Lions, and twenty-some leopards you’ve stalked and been able to kill.

So in truth I am writing to you for both your help and your skill. I’ve spoken with my superior, the Colonial Governor out of Nairobi, and he has agreed to reimburse you for travel expenses, porters, ammunition, and supplies for this hunt.

In addition to this he has agreed to post to you a reward; ten thousand East African Rupees per lion pelt, which if I am not mistaken is roughly one hundred and fifty pounds, back home.

I know that when it comes to a hunt, monetary compensation is nothing compared to the thrill and the sport, but I truly need your help. I’ve attempted to stalk the beast(s) on my own and I swear I’ve nearly been killed twice.

My locals are so frightened; they believe it’s something, supernatural. Of course you must forgive them their superstitions, and at first I too was skeptical, but Henry I swear on my Juliet, these beasts are nothing like I’ve seen before.

True man-eaters I swear.

I hope that this reaches you in good health and fighting form, and I patiently await your response.

Your friend and brother in arms,

George Heathcliffe, Baron, O.B.E

-1-

Folding the letter back into its envelope Henry Nichols looked out the window of his train.

Rolling savannah and thick wooded areas dotted with the occasional watering hole passed the rhythmic chugging of the passenger train.

Reaching for his still burning cigar Henry took a long drag while tucking the thick envelope back into his jacket’s interior pocket.

Exhaling the smoke through his nostrils he wiggled his moustache and tapped his ash into the crystal tray on his cabin’s fold out table.

‘Kenya’ He sighed. ‘Lions…’

He shook his head while taking another draw from his cigar.

Henry Nichols was a former Colonel and actually a hereditary knight; his father had earned his family the title for gallantry displayed during The First Boer War, though he’d never been the same after it.

Henry Nichols senior had hoped his son would never come to, let alone fall in love with, Africa. But much to his disappointment Henry junior had fallen under the enchanting spell of the ‘dark continent’… Intent on adventure and glory Henry had quit school and joined the army, with one request; a colonial posting anywhere in British Africa.

It broke his father’s heart, and the elder Nichols died before his son returned back from duty.

Now however, whenever the younger Henry thought of his beloved hunting grounds his passionate love was shot through with a melancholy.

This feeling, or these series of feelings, grew strongest when he thought of or talked about Kenya province.

Because it was while he was in Kenya on leave with a few other officers on safari that he received the telegram that his father had died, and that now he was a ‘Baronet and head of the Nichols dynasty’.

‘What poppy cock…’ he thought as he scoffed.

Biting the cigar between his teeth he moved his weight around and adjusted his position while searching his waist coat for his watch.

Pulling the well-worn, plain, silver time piece from its home he clicked open its cover to look at the time.

With the watch in hand he leaned towards the door to his cabin and opened it.

“Msimamizi!” ‘steward’ He called out into the train. While serving with the army in Kenya Henry made it a personal study to become fluent in Swahili, an invariably useful skill.

A handsomely uniformed Kenyan came into the doorway of the cabin and bowed his head.

“Yes Mister?”

“How far are we from Mwisho Wa Maji station?”

The steward looked upwards from Henry and out the window; he took notice of a few landmarks before answering.

“No more than ten minutes Sir.”

Henry nodded.

“Can I get you another drink Mister?”

Henry nodded and extinguished his cigar into the crystal ashtray before picking up and handing his empty glass to the steward.

“Same as before?” The African asked quizzically.

“No, no my man… Henry reached into his billfold and pulled out a few Rupee notes, “Make it a Gin and Tonic.”

The steward took the paper money and turned to leave the cabin while Henry called to him, “I don’t need change.”

The African stopped mid stride and looked at the bills that Henry had given him.

“Sir… I cannot accept this!”

Henry shook his head, “Yes you can… If I am savaged by a lion in the next few days I’d like a second G and T to be poured on my coffin.”

Henry laughed, “I should imagine I’d end up taking this same train.”

The steward’s eyes grew, “Wait! Sir you are here to hunt the Simba Mweusi?” ‘The black lion’

Henry furrowed his brow, “I am here to hunt _a_ lion… Perhaps not _that_ lion, but yes…”

The steward immediately became frightful, “No, no Sir…”

“You are the other white man to be in Mwisho Wa Maji correct?”

Henry assumed that the first must have been George and so he asked, “The other is a Colonial Officer, right?”

The steward nodded, “Yes Mister Heath…”

Henry laughed, “Heathcliffe…” he corrected.

“So sorry,” the steward said, “Mister Heathcliffe…” The Kenyan paused, “He was injured a few days ago.”

Henry’s smile immediately dropped, “What?”

“Yes, Simba Mweusi attacked his station. At night, as is the creature’s custom.”

“George Heathcliffe?” Henry was so concerned he had to ensure that it was his friend that they were talking about.

“Yes Mister George Heath.”

“What happened?”

“The Simba came and broke through the fences that they had around the village and the British building.”

“It killed many of the men of the village and Mister George tried to shoot it.”

“From what I have heard the beast was injured but Mister George was gravely hurt as well.”

Henry’s heart sank. George had always joked that of the two of them it was he who was going to get killed in Africa years before Henry.

The steward continued, “Mister George is very loved by the village, so they made sure to get one of the white doctors to come from Nairobi to save him.”

Henry nodded as the steward continued.

“Before he could arrive though the witch doctor of the village did what he could.”

Henry rubbed his moustache as he thought about his friend.

George’s face flashed through his mind as the steward continued.

“Mister George is alive, but he kept saying that a white hunter would come, he said that a knight was coming to save the village…”

“When I was a boy I learned in a church school,” The steward stopped, almost embarrassed, “I learned about the knights of your England’s table…”

He lowered his voice, “Are you the knight Mister George spoke of?”

Henry couldn’t help but smile painfully, “Yes…” and he got an idea.

Reaching into his jacket he presented a small book, his passport. After opening to the first page he looked up to the steward, before presenting the book to him.

It read: _Sir Henry Nichols, the bearer of this document, is to enjoy the title and pleasure of Baronet of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland._

The steward to his time to read the short and small text, but once he did he smiled.

“A knight… To kill the Simba…”

He nodded and continued, “Please Sir, I must get you your drink.”

The steward hastily departed and Henry laughed at his eagerness. Though it was an act, he was far too concerned about his friend.

“Goddamn it George…” he brought his hand to his mouth, rubbing his lips with concern. “You better still be breathing when I get there…”

He hadn’t seen George in months. The last time the two old-boys were together was at George’s Christmas party, a large event he tried to throw every year at his London townhouse.

After that party the two had kept up a correspondence while they worked.

George got his new posting in Kenya as the Colonial Officer for Mwisho Wa Maji while Henry acted as a ‘consultant’. This is to say a private-sector expert; providing services to Colonial companies.

He would often act as a go-between service for Colonial governments, their operations, and the local tribes. While at the same time he helped organise safari for rich gentlemen of leisure, guiding through the wilderness, hunting, and so on…

It was adequate pay, but Henry loved the adventure of it more than anything.

At least he _did_.

The last few expeditions he’d been a part of however had left a sour taste in his mouth and from those poor experiences Henry was about ready to quit Africa. That was until he got George’s letter.

But now George was injured.

Perhaps even dead…

“Goddamn it George…” he repeated.

“He could have written earlier…”

Henry nodded. “I know you George… You probably waited until the last bloody minute to draft that letter.”

Shaking his head Henry began to imagine his quarry. This must have been one alpha male of a lion.

‘Ruthless…’

‘A real man eater’, as George had said.

‘Brazenly attacking the village and the station?’ Henry thought. ‘It’s not unheard of… But with both the village hunters, and George trying to kill it? No way…’

‘I know George isn’t as competent a hunter as others but he’s a bloody crack shot, always was.’

‘So… in the station; his own territory? George should have had an advantage and that lion should have been blown away.’

Henry’s hand quavered slightly.

Outside the cabin he could hear the returning footsteps of the steward.

Carrying a tall, perspiring, and fizzing, glass the smiling man held it out to Henry and he politely returned the smile as he accepted the drink.

“Mister Henry sir, you have hunted Simba before?”

Henry took a quick swig of the bubbling tonic and nodded, wiping his moustache.

“Yes…”

He liked to hunt, but he didn’t like to boast.

In fact Henry was a quiet and personal man, and though George liked to tease him, Henry never outright enjoyed killing. He liked the sport, he liked the stalking, the mind games, and the shooting, but…

Not ‘killing’. Something about being imprecise, unclean, or brutal in the execution of an animal seemed wrong to him. And he never took a shot that wasn’t going to be clean.

Meekly his voice continued; “…one or two.”

The steward nodded.

“I will leave you now Mister Knight.”

Before closing the cabin door the steward turned and bowed his head reverently, “I will say prayer for you Mister Henry Sir.”

In Swahili Henry quietly thanked the man, “Asante…”

-2-

George Heathcliffe lay on an improvised stretcher, sweating and groaning in pain as he loaded cartridges into the magazine of his rifle.

His chest had been opened by three large blades and the natives were able to save his life by applying stiches and burning wood to cauterise the thick and deep wounds.

Any lesser man would have given in to his current condition and expired, but George was a brick-house of a being.

Three times the regiment pugilist champion, he was also renowned amongst the natives for being able to pick up two fully grown adult impala and carry them on either shoulder.

Despite this natural strength George’s injuries had sapped his mobility, and his power, and had reduced him to a bandaged mess lying on the floor of his own office.

Cursing loudly he dropped a cartridge and listened as it dully hit the floor and began a noisy roll across the uneven cracking floor boards.

The doctor from Nairobi had administered medicine and treatment to him as best he could, and was currently getting George something to eat in the village that surrounded the small colonial outpost.

Before leaving George the doctor ordered him not to move.

But if George was awake he was going to be bound to move.

His rifle was laid close to him and he was able to pull fresh cartridges from his pants pocket.

The heat and the shock of his injuries had kind of gotten to him, and he was delirious; temporarily mad.

“Eyes in the night… green flashing eyes… It shimmered… The beast shimmered.”

He muttered.

“I know it’s game now…”

He cringed and groaned in pain loudly, “Ugh! Goddamn it!”

He took a breath and held it as he continued to fill the rounds into the magazine.

“I was off by just a few inches… Just a few inches…”

After the last bullet was entered into the magazine through the breach of his gun he closed the bolt of the rifle and chambered a round.

“If I see the shimmer…” he grunted, “If I see him again… I won’t miss…”

He laughed to himself, “Not a chance…”

Wincing he dug his boot heel into the wood floor and pushed himself backwards to the wall of his office.

“Those green eyes…”

He leveled his rifle towards the door way, but maintained trigger discipline.

It was still day, and the doctor was due back soon.

‘No way would that bastard attack in the day.’ George thought “But…” he winced again, “No reason to not be ready for him…”

A small boy entered into the office and called out George’s name, “George! Doctor sent me to help you!” The simple cadence and voice was familiar.

The young boy held a wet cloth in his hand and he looked around the small building for his charge.

“Mister George?” he called again.

Grunting loudly, George responded from his office, “In here boy…”

Slowly entering into the room the young lad immediately rushed to George’s side upon seeing him leaning against the wall.

“You’re supposed to be lying down!”

George laughed, but stopped at the pain of the action. “Hello to you too Adimu…”

“Stupid adults always tell me to do things and they don’t do them either!”

George tried to smile, but the pain was too great.

“Give me the rifle Mister George.”

“Come now boy… you know better…” he finally coughed out.

Wetting George’s grime and sweat covered face the boy smirked as he went about cooling the large white officer.

George winced and smiled as the two looked at each other.

“If I die you can have my cricket set, deal?”

Adimu immediately recoiled, “Mister George that is not funny!” and he continued, “I would never play it again if you die…”

George tried to nod, “I appreciate that my boy…”

A few quiet seconds passed before George pointed to his desk and spoke, “Can you bring me some stationary?”

Adimu furrowed his brow. George had been tutoring the local children in English and a variety of other subjects, but he was an amateur teacher, and there was much in their vocabulary that was wanting.

“Oh…” he closed his eyes and winced again, “uh… paper, and pencil, writing…”

The boy nodded and left the wet cloth on George’s free arm to stand up.

Walking towards George’s desk Adimu grabbed a pad of lined paper and one of the many pencils strewn about the busy and cluttered work desk.

“Thank you Adimu…” George managed as he took hold of the articles.

Carefully he put the pencil to the paper and began to write in his unique characters. The young boy looked on in interest as he continued to wet George’s face and neck.

“What are you writing Mister George?”

George smirked and huffed dryly, “A letter my boy…”

“To who?”

“Whom…” George breathlessly corrected.

“To whom?” The boy repeated

“An old friend of mine… The hunter…”

“Mister Henry?”

George wordlessly pursed his lips and barely nodded.

“…with any luck he’ll be here in the next few days…”

“I’m praying that he is… But in case I’m not there to see it… There’s much I need to tell him…”

-3-

As George put his last letter to paper, not that far away Henry was disembarking his train and collecting his luggage.


	2. The Village

Standing on the small train platform of Mwisho Wa Maji Henry watched the uncoordinated locals help unload much of the train’s cargo.

They were reckless, and when it came to the young men handling Henry’s bags and equipment, they very poorly dropped the large travel trunk bearing his rifles, “Careful with that boy!” Henry called.

The open eyed dark face of a young man, no older than eighteen, looked up in terror as Henry made his way over to the scene.

Henry shook his head and pointed at the trunk.

“Do you have any idea what’s in that?”

The boy slowly shook his head from side to side.

“Exactly,” Henry leaned over the porter. “You never know what’s in a box until you open it.”

The thin boy looked up at Henry, shielding his eyes from the sun blazing overhead.

“It could be glass, it could be gold, and it could even be bloody dynamite. So,”

He knelt down to level his eyes with that of the porter, then his voice rose as he finished, “Handle all things with care!”

Standing back Henry looked around at the stopped men all staring at him.

He curled his lip and flared his nostrils; he summoned his old martial experience and emulated his former Corporal of Horse as best as he could recall; “What on Earth are you people staring at! Lions will be at you all if you keep standing around here!”

As soon as he invoked the possible appearance of the Lions the commotion on the platform resumed at a double quick pace.

Earlier, from seeing the blunder the porter had made the station master quickly made his way down the platform towards Henry. He was a man of average height, though he was rather rotund, he was middle aged and his suit was rather tightly fitting.

His hat was a light beige, straw derby, and complimented well his checkered brown suit.

The station master announced loudly to Henry as he approached, “So terribly sorry sir! But those damned Lions have my lads most distressed as you could imagine!”

The portly station master was white, and his beard was a brilliant red, “Though one would imagine generations of living with Lions might have gotten rid of the fear of them? Eh? What what!”

Henry nodded as the station master extended his hand, “Basil Lovejoy, at your service sir!”

Taking hold of the man’s sweaty palm Henry firmly shook it, without making a reaction to the sweat, as a gentleman ought to.

“Henry Nichols,” He smiled, “I hear you’ve been having a Lion problem, what say you?”

The round jovial Basil nodded, “Aye, you could say that yes. By God one of the bastards tore ol’ George in half I say.”

Basil pushed the side of his jacket out of the way to reveal a revolver holstered to his side.

“I swear if it weren’t for my wife’s gift here we may well have lost the old chap I say, what what.”

Henry raised an eyebrow, “Really? You saw the beast?”

Basil shook his head, “No… unfortunately, I only heard it. My cabin is right beside the office you see, and the commotion, the yelling and the shooting… It woke me up.”

He laughed, “Why I knew it was bloody serious so I jumped out of bed, grabbed my pistol and I am not ashamed to say it! I charged headfirst into the fray in my skivvies I say!”

Henry couldn’t help but open his mouth in surprise at the brash stupidity he had just heard.

Basil laughed at Henry’s expression, “Hah! I admit it was probably a very dangerous thing to do, but I may have had a dram or two to get to bed, and well… I thought what the hell; maybe a few shots fired in inebriation might actually hit the bastard! Eh?”

“You scared it off then…”

Basil nodded, “Aye, then I and a few of the locals entered the office and found our master George in quite a state let me assure you!”

Basil smacked the handle of the revolver, “Ever since then I haven’t gone anywhere without this’n here.”

Henry nodded, he could certainly understand…

“Forgive me saying but, you’re the station master?”

Basil smiled and nodded, “Aye.”

“Huh, I was expecting a local in such a position.”

Basil waved his hand, “Oh no, there was a local previously but the cheeky blighter kept letting people get aboard without paying, ha!”

Basil pointed and spoke a garbled Swahili phrase to a few of the porters before continuing.

“The railway company sent me here to oversee the whole line, station by station, until quality was reassured they said what what.”

Henry nodded, “I hate to impose… but… Might I steal a few of your men?”

Turning to their side the porter had made a neat pile of Henry’s trunk and his few bags. “I’ll be buggered if I’m carrying all my equipment to the village.”

Basil shook his head and raised a hand, “Not at all my man!”

“Niwali! Josoon! Pick up Mister Nichol’s luggage here! Double quick!”

Henry raised an eyebrow; he’d never heard such names for Kenyans before.

Sensing his confusion Basil explained, “Oh I’m going from station to station so often I don’t find it helpful to learn everyone’s names… So I give them all one for the duration of my stay.”

Henry furrowed his brow and looked off to the side, ‘Probably not the most efficient thing to do…’

Basil nodded as his men took up Henry’s bags, “As soon as I’m able I’ll look for you in the village, eh?”

Henry followed the two porters as they carried the luggage down the platform and towards the small foot path leading to the village. Turning back to Basil he nodded, “After I see George I’m sure I can rely on you for the lay of the land.”

Basil took off his hat and waved it to Henry before turning to begin directing his poorly motivated staff.

Henry laughed to himself as he looked forward towards the village, ‘That chap’s got a considerable assignment ahead if he’s really going station to station…’

As the three men walked closer to the village the signs of the nightly attacks became much more apparent.

The village had been surrounded by a fence of improvised stakes and bushels of whistling thorn. A contemporary of Henry’s, a man by the name of Patterson, had recommended that ‘bomas’ made of whistling thorn coupled with fires and sentries had aided his defence against lions at Tsavo.

Henry had longed to meet Lieutenant-Colonel Patterson but each time Henry was in London he forgot to call on Patterson’s office.

Shaking his head Henry looked as there were holes ripped through the fences at regular intervals, and that the bomas were cut through as well.

Above the colonial station the Union Jack flew proudly, unaware of the carnage that had been going on below her bright colours.

Henry tilted his head in acknowledgement after making eye contact with the empire’s symbol and took a deep breath as he followed the porters through the trashed gate of the boma fence.

Entering into the small village square Henry took stock of the buildings built around the colonial station.

There were many homes, huts and cabins built in the traditional style, but in addition to George’s office there were two other British style buildings, a small trade post and a two-story home with a small pigpen attached to its side.

The porters looked to Henry expectantly as they held his luggage.

Henry took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow, not even an hour off the train and he was already getting grimy…

After cleaning the bridge of his nose he spoke in Swahili to the men. “I’ll see to my Officer Heathcliffe, and then I’ll have you gentlemen paid. Understood?”

The two workers looked at each other before nodding.

“You can leave the luggage there, to the side of the doorway.”

Henry hesitated before approaching the door of the office building. Steeling himself he took a breath and grabbed the door handle.

Pushing it firmly he entered the one room building.

Once inside he saw several people crowded around something on the floor.

“Hello?” He called.

Turning to see the white man several of the locals smiled and turned back to what they were looking at, chattering away in Swahili.

Amongst the crowd of dark faces the white haired head of a Caucasian poked up.

“Henry Nichols I presume?” The voice asked.

Taking his hat off Henry took a few slow steps forwards. “That’s correct…”

The white man stood up and shooed out the five locals who were in the room, he spoke using both Swahili words and English.

Eventually the locals left the building and as they passed Henry he could finally see what they had crowded around.

George was lying on an improvised stretcher on the floor.

Upon seeing his friend Henry felt shot with a pain in his chest.

George was deathly pale, his lips were slightly blue and around his eyes and ears his flesh was bright red.

Then Henry saw his chest. Though it was covered by bandages George’s chest was gravely injured. The bandages were soaked, both from George’s sweat, but also from the wounds leaking through the cloth.

The white haired Caucasian man spoke again, “I’m Doctor Avery… At present I’m doing all I can for him, but…”

He looked down at George.

“He’s in a sorry state I’m afraid.”

Henry cleared his throat and at first his voice came out quietly, before he coughed.

“How… ahem, is it infection?”

The doctor nodded, “Claws are truly disease ridden things, since animals don’t clean like you or I clean our fingernails, the flesh of each kill gets lodged under their deadly weapons…”

The doctor smirked… “Though, I’m sure I don’t have to tell a hunter like yourself that…”

Pointing back behind Henry and out the door Avery continued, “Those people out there say they tried their best, but… they went straight to cauterising his wounds. Not before the witch doctor rubbed something into them mind you…”

The doctor shook his head, “Bloody fools…”

Henry shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“Will he live?”

The doctor sighed, “I have seen men come back from worse… miraculously…”

Henry let out his breath, “Is George going to have a miracle doctor?”

Avery shook his head.

“I am terribly sorry… But…”

He looked back down at George, “No… I don’t think he’ll be coming back from this.”

Henry took a breath sharply as he looked at the weak movement of his friend’s chest up and down.

“But, I have been wrong before…”

Avery bent back down and rubbed a wet cloth over George’s brow.

George’s eyes opened slightly and his lips moved as he began muttering.

Doctor Avery leaned closer to hear him and responded loudly to the question, “Yes George, Henry is here. He’s over there by the door chap?”

Pointing towards Henry Avery nodded, “He made it, fear not George everything will be alright, yes?”

Henry took a few more steps closer and knelt beside his friend. George’s eyes opened a little more and he managed a smile.

“I’ve given him a few doses of laudanum; he was in a great deal of pain and delirium earlier.” Avery tilted his head to the side as he bared his teeth, “The unfortunate side effect is that it will leave him dazed… Slow to respond and the like…”

Henry nodded.

“It’s me George, it’s Henry… I got your letter and made my way here as fast as the iron horse would take me.”

George smiled again. He began struggling to speak, his chest heaving up and down in desperation as he fought to get his words out.

“I… miss-missed… y-y-you… f-friend…”

Henry felt a horrible choking feeling grip his throat.

“N-nonsense old man, Avery here is a top notch physician. You’ll be r-right as rain soon enough old boy!”

Henry tried not to notice the smell coming from the bandages, “You’ll be… be up and at ‘em boxing again in no time.”

George’s eyes struggled to stay open as his lids fluttered heavily.

“I missed Henry…” he let out a long breath trying to laugh, “I missed the b… the bea… the bastard…”

Henry nodded and brought his palm to rest on George’s shoulder.

“Adimu… the b-boy… Adimu…”

George’s eyes closed and his breathing slowed as he drifted out of consciousness.

Avery wiped the cloth across George’s brow again before speaking.

“Adimu is George’s pet of sorts… The boy has barely left his side the whole time since his injury.”

Henry nodded, “When George was still lucid, and before his injuries really got the better of him he wrote you a letter.”

Pointing upwards Avery continued, “The boy Adimu won’t let anyone else near him, currently he’s on the roof with George’s rifle.”

Henry shook his head as he looked towards a ladder resting against the wall and a straw hatch in the roof.

“He’s been waiting all day for you…” Avery chuckled as he rewet the cloth in a small wooden bowl. “I imagine the lad’s fallen asleep by now.”

Henry took a breath and rubbed his jaw, before using his sleeve on his wet eyes.

“Do not let my friend die Avery…”

Standing Henry walked to the ladder and took hold of either side of it before beginning his climb.

Opening the straw hatch slowly Henry tentatively looked around the roof. He didn’t want to be shot in the head by anyone, let alone a boy.

“Adimu?” he called, “Lad, are you up here?”

Sure enough, sitting below the flagpole was the small African boy. In his hand he held a rolled piece of paper and across his legs was George’s bolt action.

Henry slowly pushed the straw hatch and whistled.

Adimu came to and looked with wild eyes at Henry.

“Mister Nichols, sir?” He called.

Henry nodded, “Aye… that’s correct boy… Now might you pass me that rifle please?”

Adimu quickly stood and walked across the roof towards the hatch, letter in one hand, rifle in the other. He stifled a sob before asking, “Is Mister George still alive?”

“For the moment, yes he is my boy.”

Adimu pursed his lips and shrugged, “I was supposed to help Mister George get better but… I can’t do anything.”

Henry nodded “It’s okay lad…” Adimu sat back down on the roof as Henry climbed out of the hatch and towards the small boy. “It’s okay…”

Adimu held up the letter and put the rifle onto the floor of the roof.

Taking the letter in hand Henry knelt, “George is a strong man… But I know if you were with him it’d help a lot.”

Adimu wiped his eyes, “Mister Doctor Avery said I shouldn’t be there?”

Henry looked back down towards the hatch, “I disagree…”

Adimu smiled, “And with George sick, I have colonial authority here.”

The boy nodded, “Mister George said you were going to save us… That you would kill the lions…”

Henry felt a twinge, “I can only try Adimu…”

“Mister George has never lied to me… I know you will kill them…”

Henry looked up from the small boy and scanned the surrounding plateau. ‘I can try…’ his thoughts echoed.

-4-

Sitting in the bough of a tree above a deep gully and clicking loudly a Yautja hunter scratched his thick nails into the bark. His latest expedition was far too risky, and he was very nearly shot.

He’d underestimated the prevalence of firearms.

He expected just one or two men with the weapons… But when the round one came out of nowhere…

That was far too close…

Since the night he’d watched the village from the safety of his perch, monitoring the people coming and going. Then he heard the loud cry of a machine.

The thunderous chugging of a great mechanical device motored across the hot rolling landscape, until it came to a place close to the human village.

While watching the arrival of the train from a distance, the Yautja spied a man speaking with the round one.

‘Who might he be?’ the hunter thought.

The man, who departed the train, as he entered the village, he seemed… different.

There was a unique air about him.

Something that smelt like… a challenge…

To be honest the Yautja hunter was growing board of just playing in the area and last night he was intent on killing the choice males before finally moving on.

But he was setback; it was a surprise, but an interesting one.

And he couldn’t help but tilt his head quizzically as he thought about new strategies to toy with his prey.

Last nights’ setback coupled with the arrival of the new man… Why… things had really gotten interesting again.

Not tonight… but maybe tomorrow he’d test out his new quarry.

Yes… tomorrow would definitely have a new treat for him to enjoy.

The Yautja finished carving a small human shaped figure into the bark of the tree before he skillfully descended from his perch.

‘I’ll be watching that one closely…’ he thought before melting from view into the thick grass surrounding the tree.

He clicked and growled to himself.

“I have a good feeling about that one…”


	3. The Trail

When Henry decided to leave the village it was past noon. But thankfully it was summer, and the sun would shine intensely for many more hours. Time enough for Henry to walk around a little, get himself the lay of the land and contemplate the meaning of George’s second, delirium inspired, letter…

‘Henry’ it read, ‘Adimu will be giving you this if I die…’

His hand must have slipped because the next several words were smudged and illegible.

‘…About the beast. There’s only one! Alilaaniwa was right… It’s something worse than a lion Henry…’

Henry stopped and re-read the line. Who was this Alilaaniwa George referenced here?

The word stuck out to Henry because it was Swahili for ‘the cursed’ or ‘cursed one’. It could also be transliterated as crazy, evil, or ostracised. Not exactly encouraging if George is saying that this person ‘was right’…

But whoever this ‘Alilaaniwa’ was Henry knew that he’d have to speak with them and continued reading.

‘I nearly found it before, and I came very close yesterday (?) afternoon; I thought I was on his tail! Past the ‘cherry brook’, there’s a small valley or bough in the land, the smell Henry, It was so rotten! I know he was down there, but it was too close to dark and I knew enough not to tangle with the devil on his own land…’

Here the letter trailed off, and George started the next lines with several crossed out letters before finally continuing with a capital ‘I’.

‘It was after I returned to the village that he struck. He must have followed me and my man Luangwa… I can’t write it all down now, but he ripped Luangwa in half… I shot everything – (in?) my magazine at it Henry… I couldn’t hit a bloody thing! I missed th- bast-‘

The last sentences of the letter deteriorated into scratchy characters, until George’s hand must have finally dropped off the page.

‘Time was of the essence…’ Henry thought and he confirmed with himself that he would speak with the locals and his contacts; Doctor Avery and Mr. Lovejoy, in detail, when he returned.

For now he had to hear the wind through the grass of the Savannah, the creaking of the baobab trees, and the croaking sounds of the wild.

He had to feel the land flowing around him, the pulsing of life, and get in tune with the territory he’d be hunting in.

He had to be in and with his lover…

Kenya.

His brutal mistress Africa… She was like a wild woman filled with tolling passions… And she was a murderess that had taken more than her fair-share of his friends.

At present she was trying to take yet another from Henry.

But the consolation that he would have a chance to bring down the cursed lion that was doing it eased his anxieties.

If only minutely.

Henry spoke with Doctor Avery before leaving; informing him that he was of a mind to take the lay of the land with few arms and return to gather more information from the survivors and from his fellow British.

Tucking George’s second letter into Henry’s breast pocket he then went outside and dragged his luggage into the station.

Setting himself up beside the doorway of the building on top of some grain sacks and wicker baskets filled with seed.

He’d brought with him from England four firearms, and scores of munitions, much more than was necessary for a simple lion hunt.

His hope was… that after this lion business was sorted… he could hunt and shoot out on the plains with his friend for as long as he could be away from his affairs in London.

Like before the war.

When they were much younger…

Henry paused as he opened his trunk; cautiously he stole a glance at his unconscious and bandaged friend.

Adimu was sitting beside George wetting and rubbing his face and neck with the cloth that Doctor Avery had, reluctantly, given the boy.

Henry could tell that Avery didn’t… well… let’s say Henry had a suspicion that Avery wasn’t the most agreeable when it came to the natives.

Adimu’s fear of the Doctor, and Avery’s upturned nose at the boy gave off such an impression.

Though Henry shook his head, he had work to do, grief and polite sensibilities could wait… George would have understood that, and Avery can bloody well wait.

Reaching for his revolver Henry wrapped his fingers around the heavy and familiar weapon and pulled out the Webley.

Opening his box of pistol ammunition he took several rounds and loosely threw them into one of his pockets. Taking six more he snapped the action open on the pistol and loaded each round into the dial.

When it was fully loaded Henry exhaled through his nose and scratched his moustache. Hopefully he wouldn’t be close enough or be in a position to use his pistol, especially on a lion…

Many hunters keep a pistol with them for a variety of reasons; failure to fire in their primary weapon, running dry, the proximity of the target, even being rushed by a target…

But if you were hunting something like a lion, you needed a rifle or some similarly powered shot gun slugs.

If you were drawing a pistol on the beast it was because he got the drop on you, and not the other way around.

Something like a .45 Webley was a weapon of last resort against a target like a lion in close quarters, and Henry shuddered as he remembered Mr. Lovejoy telling him he shot his pistol at the creature the previous night.

‘What a strange character that Lovejoy…’

But the fact that Lovejoy’s similar caliber pistol had succeeded in scaring off the creature gave Henry hope that if he did encounter the beast out there, he’d more than likely be able to scare him off in the same way.

Folding the pistol closed he took out his holster and placed the gun into its leather home, and then attached the holster to his belt and right leg.

As he wasn’t specifically looking for his quarry he’d just bring his shotgun rather than either of his rifles.

After being scared and given potential wounds last night the lion would be far from the area, licking itself and taking time off to recoup.

Though…

If it was intent on feeding, as is its purported habit, then it would have been very disappointed to have missed carrying off George’s body…

Henry shuddered… He hated to think of George as if he were beef, or carrion for an animal to feed off of. But it was true.

If the creature intended to get a large meal that night, and was driven off it had probably spent the day searching for an easier, but smaller, dinner.

Pulling from the trunk an olive coloured cover Henry unbuttoned and removed his lightly worn Eagle-Keye side-by-side double barrel from the thick padded material.

He checked the action of the weapon and then looked for his box of slugs. Opening the grey and red paper box Henry took several of the red with white stripe cylinders into his hand.

The butt of the shotgun had a wraparound bandolier with space for six shells and so Henry loaded one into each slot before taking another six out of the box. He threw four into another pocket and then put one down each barrel.

Closing the breech Henry then made sure his safety was on before taking hold of his plain leather strap from the trunk.

Attaching the clips of the sling to the front and back of his shotgun Henry slung the weapon on his shoulder and patted himself down.

‘Was there anything else?’

He looked through the trunk with his eyes before nodding knowingly at his huntsman’s knife.

The worn, ruby-stained wood looked up at Henry; its cracks and well grooved handle were intimately known to him just as well as they had been known to his father before, and his grandfather before that.

‘A well-made knife, well taken care of, will take care of you…’ His father would tell him.

Though his father never used the blade for hunting, Henry Sr. had nonetheless made use of the weapon for decades before it passed to his son.

Tucking the sheathed blade into the back of his trousers, Henry made sure that the handle was easy to draw if needs be, though he doubted he’d be using it, one really never knows what can or will happed out there in the bush.

Now satisfied, Henry finally switched off his civilian hat and took a free pith helmet hanging from a series of hooks beside the station’s doorway. He was ready for walking and he took a few steps towards the door.

Before leaving however he turned to see his friend again and then, reluctantly, Henry parted from the room, wordlessly waving to Adimu and the unconscious George as he did so.

-1-

Kul’kah was currently dressing a female impala he had killed earlier that morning, before the new human arrived, and before he had sat in the tree to watch the small village he’d speared the mammal with a well-placed throw and he’d dragged her corpse off the savannah to a clutch of trees.

He’d strung up the kill to drain while he was away, and now he’d come back to make ready the meat for his dinner.

He rolled his shoulders and clicked his tusks as he quartered the carcass; he’d been making his meals for the past month from impala and zebra and by now was quite used to the anatomy of the alien creatures.

Cooked on a fire and rubbed with salt and they tasted like most things found on the home world.

His small camp was hidden in a rocky valley between two ridges, close to a small stream.

Kul’kah watched it for days before setting up there. He had to ensure that he would be clear of disturbance by humans.

Last night however he was surprised that the one pale human had finally found, or at least gotten close to finding his little hide away.

That was enough for him to decide that he was done in the area.

But they had proven themselves resilient…

And Kul’kah had underestimated them.

Especially the round one… Kul’kah snarled at the thought that such a pitiful creature such as the round one had dared to attack him…

Though he was pleased he had taken at least one of the dangerous humans in the village that night.

The tall one…

Kul’kah didn’t know what the other humans called him, nor did he care of course, but he was glad that he’d been able to fell such a strong specimen.

The tall one stood about a whole head higher than his fellow humans and he was impressively strong.

His ivory skull now hung from Kul’kah’s side. The new weight gave him a sense of pride and satisfaction.

It was a good kill, well stalked, and well taken. But the other pale one, the one he’d just been able to wound.

Kul’kah growled lowly as he drove his knife into the impala’s body.

‘If the round one hadn’t of interfered!’ he thought. ‘Though’ he stopped, ‘if he had of I would have left before the new one appeared…’

Kul’kah nodded; ‘the new pale one’.

‘What shall I call him?’ He paused as he flicked some cartilage off his blade.

He clicked his tusks and nodded, ‘The pale hunter…’

He nodded.

‘A hunter knows his own kind…’

Kul’kah clicked and chattered to himself. ‘That one is… special…’

He sliced a thick piece of meat off the flank of his game and thought about the new arrival.

‘He carried himself differently than the other pales… He was… at home here.’

Digging his nails into the meat Kul’kah left the hanging corpse of the impala and began to walk through the grass away from the tree his kill was hanging from and deeper into the small wooded area. And he was confident enough to risk just a small fire for his meal.

‘What would this hunter be like?’ he began to imagine. ‘How would he begin?’

Kul’kah flicked his dreadlocks off his shoulders as he walked.

‘He was obviously here for me… So how would the human start?’

He clicked his tusks as he began excitedly thinking about the mind of his new opponent.

‘This one’ll be my challenge…’ then he felt venom rise in his throat, ‘And the round one will die for his insolence! But… gah! When?’

Kul’kah was having trouble now planning his new movements; how and when, and so on. The arrival of the new human, the failure to kill the other pale one, and the intrusion of the round one…

It didn’t seem like much, but to Kul’kah he thought and thought, puzzling over the possibilities.


	4. The Gully

Henry held his shotgun in between the crooks of both his elbows as he was climbing a small grassy hillock.

His chest heaved and his shirt stuck to his skin from a thin layer of sweat.

A cool breeze was coming from the north and blew his scent south-west; thankfully down in the direction he didn’t need to go.

Ahead small ridges of limestone broke through the soil in a series of formations that looked like the back of some great beast.

Henry nodded in recognition, ‘with such sights as this, who could blame the myths of titans becoming the very earth under man’s feet?’

It was a familiar sight to him and when he reached the crest of the hillock he allowed himself a thoughtless moment to enjoy the landscape.

‘This place is old… home to great untameable beasts, and to vengeful and fearsome gods.’

Though he had been raised a dutiful and typical Anglican, Henry couldn’t help but believe that out here in the wild places of the world… there weren’t more forces at work than just that of Christ…

He took a short breath and shuddered.

He’d seen far too many things…

Horrible things…

To make him continue to believe that there was just one god out there in the heavens.

“Come on Henry… Not now…” he whispered.

Rolling his shoulders and adjusting his hands under his shotgun he nodded.

“If we were a lion pair… where would we be?”

Narrowing his eyes across the rippling and hot savannah he scanned the horizon on either side of the titan’s ridge.

‘Titan’s ridge…’ he chuckled, ‘Good a name as any I suppose.’

Where the western end of the rocky ridge sloped towards the valley floor there seemed to be a large concentration of foliage and underbrush.

Henry descended to a knee and took hold of his weapon with his left hand, standing it on its butt he covered his brow with his right hand and squinted.

Peeking out just on the other side of the ridge he could see the tops of some trees and the hint of lush green.

“A spring’s over there… I bet you, and make no mistake.” He thought aloud.

He moved his right hand down to his chest and produced his watch from his waistcoat.

He made a ‘mhmph’ sound as he read the hands.

“Maybe I’ve got enough light…”

Turning around he could see the village far in the distance, just to the edge of the horizon line.

“There and back?” he asked aloud.

He turned back forwards and looked at the watch before looking upwards to the suns’ current position.

‘Maybe…’ he thought.

As he brought his head down to look towards the ridge there was a flash of movement to his right.

Letting go of his watch he immediately brought his shotgun up to his shoulder and his hands in their proper positions.

Pivoting on his knee rapidly Henry came to bear to the right and his eyes darted around wildly searching for the movement again.

The valley’s floor to his right rolled and descended in a series of uneven hills and hillocks.

Whatever he had seen disappeared from view as it went in between the crests of these hills.

‘All you’ve got to do is wait; and…’

Like a boat amidst large tidal waves he saw what it was that had flashed and caught his eye.

“There you are…” he whispered.

A female impala raced through the hills periodically escaping from view as she leapt over the next crest.

Henry exhaled in relief.

‘Not your lion old boy… it’s okay, just breathe.’ He tried to assure himself.

He reapplied the safety on his shotgun and held it between his elbows as he rose back to his feet.

“We’ve got the light…” he said, his voice slightly shaken, ‘Just do it and be on with it…’

Taking a step forwards he began to descend the hill into the half-foot high sea of wild grass which covered the valley floor.

Though reaching the trees he’d seen took a little longer than Henry assumed…

Cutting through the middle of the valley was an old, dried up, and rocky creek bed.

The sides of which were filled with dry, old, and dead thorny bushes.

“Buggar…” he exclaimed.

Using the butt of his shotgun he tried to knock down and out of the way as many, and as much of the barbed dead shrubs as he could.

When a path was made he hopped across the creek to the other side and did the same thing.

‘I hope I can find this way before it gets dark…’

He shook his head and breathlessly sighed, ‘I’ll be bloodied and a mess if I have to try and get through this at dusk…’

When he’d freed himself of the creek the land started to ascend the closer he got to the rocky ridge.

Underneath the plants started to get healthier and thicker.

‘Water is definitely nearby…’

“And where there’s water there’ll be animals…”

Though he maintained the safety he gripped his shotgun and positioned himself into his stalking and shooting ready stance.

His pace maintained its’ speed but his eyes searched around him for any movement.

Rounding the edge of the ridge he confirmed that there was indeed water ahead.

Trees and thick underbrush greeted him and the sight was accompanied by the sound of a running stream.

‘What was it George had written?’

Henry didn’t dare take his hands off his weapon but he stooped to a crouch as he strained to remember.

“Past the Cherry Brook…” he whispered.

‘What that what that creek was called?’ he thought, ‘It must have been… cherries bloom in the spring, that creek was dry, perhaps only seasonal?’

‘It must flow in the spring then?’

Henry finally nodded.

‘That was it…’

Standing back up Henry’s thoughts continued; ‘That means… the valley George and his man had found, or described must be over here…’

Henry pressed his cheek to his shotgun and looked down the barrels.

“Okay you bastard…”

He began walking into the greenery and towards the running water.

However Henry immediately had to watch his footing; on this side of the ridge the decline was far steeper.

‘Bloody hell…’

Hesitantly he had to move his face so as to ensure he wouldn’t trip down the side of the hill.

Ahead the land cut into two large boughs.

Through the middle and shadowed overhead by trees was a loud and running stream.

The trees were tall and there was foliage all around, but thankfully none of it was thick enough to hide something like a lion from Henry’s view.

Age had taken a few feet off of his long game, but Henry’s eyes were still as sharp at twenty yards as they were when he was twenty years.

‘Didn’t George complain about the smell?’

He nodded as he reached the bottom of the hill.

‘Okay… if I start to smell it then I’ll know I’m in the right place.’

Now with the shade of the trees overhead Henry slowed his steps to a crawl.

Scanning from side to side and behind him in a scheduled routine he made sure he was alone and there were no predators on their approach.

The ground was terribly uneven under him.

As much a hindrance as it was to him he took solace in the fact that to a lion at full speed it would be as much of a problem.

‘It’d slow them down…’ his thoughts remarked, ‘just enough to keep us at a balance I think…’

He scoffed.

Was he balanced and at equal odds with a lion?

No… and he confirmed in his thoughts that ‘man in the wilds, even with modern weapons and technology, would still never be an equal to the beasts which roamed the jungles and swam under the waves…’

He silently smiled to himself.

‘I dare say these types of animals will still maintain a dominion over the earth even a hundred years from now…’

He chuckled hollowly and his thoughts dully reminded him why he was here,

‘Okay Henry… if you were a lion where would you camp…’

To his left on the opposite side of the creek was a small formation of rocks.

‘That’ll do…’

He nodded and began his slow assault on the position.

Each step he took was calculated and as noiseless as possible.

Avoiding roots, rocks, dry twigs, and uneven dirt made his meandering path appear crazed to the uninitiated onlooker.

But to a fellow professional they’d silently approve of Henry’s hard earned skill and textbook execution.

When he came to the edge of the stream he scanned the depth of it.

Here was to be the trickiest part of his approach.

‘Come on you bitch… where is it… where do you cross?’

Looking intensely at either flank of his side of the stream he searched for the thinnest and shallowest place.

‘The lion’s crossing…’

Like most prissy cats lions did not like being wet and they’d try to reduce as much unnecessary time in water as possible.

‘Where is it…?’

Henry’s shoulders twitched and his chest began to tighten in apprehension.

He was wasting time.

Begrudgingly he made a judgement call.

The stream was too wide to leap across, even with a running start…

It was about half a foot past what Henry judged would have been a comfortable and feasible long-jump for his frame.

It was about a foot deep and at the shallowest area he could see maybe about five or seven inches? About half a foot?

He finally nodded.

‘I’ll have to make sure to change socks, but it looks like we’re going to power through Henry…’

Making his way to the shallows he began his crossing.

Though he made noise he was able to maintain a level of quiet that didn’t exceed the average natural volume of the stream’s movement.

He cringed at the cool feeling of the water soaking his boots and he cursed himself, ‘Should have brought the Wellies… I know I know… I should have brought the Wellies…’

Making his way to the other side of the stream he kept scanning around and behind him as he walked towards the rocks.

Then he smelt it…

Like a wall the scent hit him.

Henry had been to abattoirs, he’s been to shambles, and he’s had more than enough experience with battlefields and military hospitals…

But, this smell,

His nostrils flared and it burned his eyes and sinuses.

He gagged and tried to keep his composure as he stepped closer and closer to the rocks.

It was rot… decay… acrid

He struggled to keep a steady grip on his weapon as he finally reached the rocks.

The smell was worst the closer he was to the rocky pile.

Henry tried to breathe, and then he nodded to himself.

‘Slow and steady old boy…’

Lowering himself to a prone he began to crawl up the rocks and to their crest.

When he finally reached it he looked down into a manmade camp.

‘What in God’s name!’ he exclaimed.

The area surrounded by the rocks had been flattened out and there were what appeared to be small boxes interspersed around the site.

In the centre there were the cooling and dying embers of a fire enclosed by a ring of large stones.

Beside the fire pit was what looked like a thatch sleeping roll and pillow?

Then he saw what must have been creating the smell…

There was a large boulder which had been repurposed as a table or shrine of some kind…

It was bloody and covered in viscera… on its surface were several skulls which Henry recognised; a zebra… some impala…

But the ones that kept his attention were the human skulls. ‘One, two, three, six?’ Henry counted.

Movement past the site to his right made his eyes dart away from the shrine and he stopped counting.

‘There were many more than six…’ he thought.

The bushes seemed to have moved on their own and they kept Henry’s fixed and stationary glare.

‘What was that?’ his mind cried.

He took a short breath through his mouth and tensed as he disengaged the safety of his weapon.

‘Was that whoever made this?’ he thought.

‘Do I try to speak with him?’ He immediately thought.

He scanned the small camp again, ‘This may be the home of a witch…’

‘God almighty… I’ve never read or heard of anything like this before.’ He shuddered and brought his shotgun up and into a readied position.

‘The smell has definitely kept the other animals away… The shrine would scare any locals away as well…’

‘Who the bloody hell am I waiting for here?!’

His breath started to speed up and he could feel his limbs loosen and become more nimble as his bloodstream flowed with adrenaline.

‘Hang on Henry… that fire’s not that old… come on… how long ago did he put it out?’

Henry’s eyes tentatively looked back to the fire pit and he made a brief calculation.

‘Not even ten minutes…’ he eventually deduced, ‘maybe fifteen...’

He held his breath and remained calm.

Rising from his lying position Henry brought the butt of his weapon to his shoulder and was ready to fire.

“Where are you…” he whispered.

‘Foul magic and incantations won’t stop a slug to the chest…’ he thought.

He couldn’t help but smirk, ‘I’ve yet to see such a thing.’

This smell had definitely pushed off any lions or predators that may have called this area home.

‘George must have been mistaken…’ he thought, ‘There are no lions here.’

When Henry was personally sure that he wasn’t about to be mauled by a great beast he resolved to call out in Swahili.

He knew he wasn’t alone… that was for sure.

But he didn’t know who it was that he’d seen, or that had jumped out of his view.

And several tense seconds passed before he finally announced his presence;

“Hello! Whoever is out there, I have a weapon; I have a gun. Show yourself and I swear I will not harm you.”

There was only silence in response.

“I swear on my name and on my father’s bones I will not harm you…”

The canopy overhead moved with the breeze and the ambience continued to mutely respond to Henry’s calls.

‘Alright… if that’s how you want to play this, fine!’

Steading his wet boots on the rocks he rose into a stand and started down the others side of the pile and into the gully’s camp.

 


	5. The Witch

“Come on now!” Henry called, his confidence beginning to build.

‘I’ve got the blighter with his trousers down haven’t I?’ He thought.

Stepping over discarded bones at the base of the rock pile he now stepped foot over foot into the small camp site.

“I mean no harm if you don’t!” he called in Swahili.

Predictably there was no answer.

But he did hear the clicking of something nearby.

It almost sounded like a hiss?

‘Oh he’s close… just past this tree…’

Henry paused as he came to the others side of the camp, a large boab tree stood ahead of him, it’s large branches crooned over top of the camp and provided the area the bulk of its shade.

‘I can feel it…’ his thoughts raced.

‘One… two…’ he mentally counted.

Tightening his hands on his weapon he leapt around the corner of the tree expecting to see the dark painted face of a witch doctor.

“Three!”

Instead of a native, grinning teeth of a skeleton greeted him.

Yelling in surprise and stumbling backwards Henry looked up and down at the grotesque totem before him.

The skin and flesh of the man had been torn off or eaten away and he had fused to the tree as his meat and clothing rotted.

The skeleton was pinned to the thick trunk of the tree by several sharp metal barbs.

For several seconds Henry looked around, sweat dripping from his brow, as he tried to see if he was going to be attacked.

He’d been played…

He knew it.

‘But by whom?’

“Who’s out there!” he called in English and in frustration.

About a minute passed before he looked back at the skeleton.

The metal weapons pinning the body to the tree were bright and shone when the light hit them.

Keeping his right hand on the trigger of his weapon Henry tentatively leaned forwards and touched one of the blades.

‘Are these knives?’ he asked, ‘Darts? Spear tips?’

As he took hold of one of the many blades he pulled it towards him and it easily came out of the skeleton’s ribcage.

It was bright steel…

Henry’s eyes shot open widely.

“What the bloody hell…”

‘There’s no way this is African.’ He remarked. ‘This metal is almost as light as a feather! But it’s stainless…’

‘It’s been lodged in this body for weeks and yet it’s not got a single indication of rust or of tarnish!’

“Good Lord…” he whispered.

Turning the blade over in his hand he tried to potentially place it… But he’d never seen anything like it before.

Looking back up and the macabre grin of the skeleton he nodded curtly.

“I hope it was quick chap…”

Stepping away from the tree his thoughts continued, ‘If that poor sod had been ritually killed by this witch then…’ despite the heat of the air and the sweat on his body he shivered nervously and his neck felt chill.

‘I don’t want to think about it…’

He shook his head from side to side before engaging the safety on his shotgun.

Leaning the gun against his legs he pulled out his handkerchief and carefully wrapped the blade.

When he was satisfied that the blade posed no threat to his wardrobe he tucked it into his jacket’s interior pocket.

‘Perhaps Avery or Lovejoy… anyone back at the station could illuminate what may have happened here…’

Stepping back into the camp he looked around at the odds and ends strewn about the well lived in space.

There was a pan of some sorts by the fire, it looked iron but Henry didn’t want to begin an investigation of the witch’s personal affects…

Despite his curiosity he was here to hunt a lion… not a wild man in the jungle.

‘Though a murderer he may be… I’ll speak with the men at the station and see what the locals have to say.’

He nodded and began to trek out of the campsite.

‘Tomorrow I’ll set off in the other direction… see if I can pick up a trail at all there.’

He held his left hand to his nose and carried his shotgun with his right over the middle of the barrels.

‘You can’t right all the wrongs of the world Henry…’

…

When Henry was on his way from England to Kenya it wasn’t a single destination to destination trip…

He took a ship from Portsmouth to Marseille and unfortunately he had to stay almost a full day there before there was a ship to take him to Alexandria.

From there he knew he could get to Kenya in a matter of days…

Years of working with the British army had built up an extensive repertoire of friends and contacts on which Henry had been able to always rely.

There was a spot in Marseille that he and George had frequented many years earlier.

It was an old, and yet relatively unknown bawdyhouse.

He knew how to get there from the port on foot and he had paid an eager Garcon at the port to stow and watch his trunks, ensuring that his equipment for the hunt would be secure and unmolested by unscrupulous French gentlemen…

Though he was consumed with anxiety at the prospect of his friend George being in trouble there was nothing he could do at the moment… He was already able to shave several days off the trip when he charted his voyage to Marseille.

‘Just relax Henry…’

He took a deep breath and rounded the corner of ‘Rou de Courtesan’.

Some street urchins eyed him expectantly and without a word Henry threw a few shillings towards the children.

Then he saw it.

The old white stone building was built in a ‘Louise-Eglese style’ and its peaked roof was spotted with several windows and dormers.

It was a distinctly Parisian building in the red-light district of Marseille.

As he approached several women cooed and called from their windows, beckoning him to partake of their services.

He smiled.

If he were a decade younger he’d have rolled in with flair and style.

As he and George joked in their youths; “’Ello ‘ello Ladies! Couple of Brits have arrived to plant some flags! Who’s first?!”

He chuckled under his breath and took off his hat as he approached the open doorway of the establishment.

A mature and liberally makeup adorned woman greeted him and waved him closer, “Bienvenue Monsieur, bienvenue…”

He nodded wordlessly, and she raised an eyebrow.

“Anglais?” she asked.

Henry smiled and nodded, “Oui.”

She smiled.

The matron was missing a canine, but her gums were bright and her body exuded life.

Her accent was thick but she spoke competent English. “We have a wide selection of girls Monsieur…” she boasted.

“May I take your coat? Get you a drink?”

Henry shook his head, “No… that’s alright. I will have a drink though.”

She smiled warmly.

When he spoke he dusted off his French he’d learned as a lad, his accent was minimal but still there, “Gin avec tonic”

The matron nodded and looked to her side; seemingly out of nowhere a young girl had appeared.

“Gin-tonic aussi vite que vos pieds peuvent bouger!” she commanded.

The young girl darted off and the matron escorted Henry into the sparsely occupied lounge of the large building.

“So ah… Monsieur?” she began, the tone was wordlessly asking his name.

“Nichols.” He replied.

“Oui, Monsieur Nichols, how may I assist you…” she searched for the English word before finally saying, “aujourd’hui?”

Henry nodded, “Une fille, clean… nettoyer,” he repeated in French, “Et une chambre, pour quelques heures.”

The Matron took Henry’s hat and nodded at the request.

Before she left Henry added, “S’il vous plait.”

Smiling at Henry’s use of French the woman turned to leave before she asked, “One who speaks English, yes?”

Henry nodded, “If at all possible.” He said before sitting into a velvet wingback chair.

The fireplace of the lounge was roaring and women were milling about playing cards, smoking, and sharing drinks.

But as for male patrons, Henry counted maybe five in total, himself included.

An elderly bearded gentleman was sitting by an open window playing chess with a blonde courtesan and the two were shirtless.

Their discarded clothing on the ground seemed to indicate that whoever had lost a game had to remove an article of clothing.

From Henry’s view it appeared that the courtesan was winning… She’d only removed her blouse and her bra so far whereas the gentleman was wearing his underwear and only one sock.

He furrowed a brow and shook his head at the comic sight.

Quietly the young woman from earlier had returned with his drink.

“Monsieur.” She meekly squeaked out.

At first he was surprised at her sudden, noiseless, appearance but quickly he smiled and received the tall cool glass.

Thin lemon slices floated on the surface of the drink and it fizzed loudly with the bubbling tonic.

“Y a-t-il autre chose que je puisse vous avoir?” she whispered.

Henry shook his head and smiled.

“Non, merci.” He replied.

She bowed and as quickly as she appeared she slipped out of the room and behind a thick curtain to the left of Henry’s seat.

He took a few sips of his drink and looked back at his fellow patrons.

A piano played sorrowfully from the other room and he could see a Frenchman in military uniform in the doorway. His arm was wrapped around a woman and the two were singing a duet as an unseen pianist played for them.

The last two men in the lounge sat at a small round table beside the fireplace playing some kind of card game.

The women who were not otherwise occupied had gathered around the men playing and were watching; whispering hushed guesses as to what was going to happen at the next card flip.

The Matron arrived with Henry’s Fille.

“Monsieur?” she called.

Henry finished a sip and looked up.

A young girl with blonde braided hair stood beside the Matron.

“C’est Sophie.” the Matron announced.

At her name the young woman curtsied politely.

“As for the… particulars… We accept your British pounds if you haven’t any Francs.”

Henry nodded and began to stand. Moving his glass from his right hand to left he then reached into his jacket and took hold of a Guinea amongst his loose coins.

Tossing the gold coin to the Matron the woman skillfully caught it mid-air.

She didn’t even look at it before she bowed her head, “That will be more than adequate Monsieur.”

…

Stepping over a large root Henry came to the rippling stream and tentatively wadded through its shallow crossing again.

He had no idea why he was thinking of the young French girl…

Sophie.

She smelt nice… Like freshly picked lavender…

For whatever reason he’d suddenly remembered her, and his brief stay in Marseille.

Maybe it was his queer desire to abscond with the girl? To bring her with him?

She had said she’d never been outside of Marseille…

He smiled and for a moment his thoughts drifted again.

But a nearby a tree cracked and Henry immediately brought his shotgun up to bear.

“Show yourself!” He called.

The air crackled and burned… it smelt like gunpowder but Henry was certain he hadn’t heard a shot!

Something behind him exploded and he immediately dropped to a knee and pivoted.

“What?!” he muttered.

‘What is that!’ his thoughts exclaimed.

A tree seemed to spontaneously explode and its tall trunk began to fall towards him.

‘A trap!’ his mind roared.

As the trunk fell it began to speed up and Henry threw himself to the side and bank of the stream.

‘Don’t wet the gun!’ his thoughts ordered.

Keeping the shotgun above his head he landed, roughly, chest first into the edge of the stream’s bank.

Hitting the ground he winded himself and immediately kicked off of the bottom of the water.

His legs were soaked and the stream wet him up to his abdomen.

Rolling onto his back he brought his weapon back to his shoulder and his eyes searched all around for whoever detonated the dynamite.

‘It had to have been dynamite!’ He thought. ‘Gah! You were so preoccupied with the French fille that you didn’t even hear the blast you fool!’

Scanning from side to side he looked intensely for the witch.

“Come on!” he roared.

Quickly he brought his legs out of the water and began to stand.

“Fight me like a man!”

He began to make circles as he wildly looked for any movement in the foliage.

As he turned his hat fell off the back of his head and sweat dripped down his brow and nose.

His pants clung awkwardly to his legs and his body felt heavier with the added weight of the water.

The sudden fall and the rapid standing had given him a slight wave of dizziness, but nothing was about to make him take his eyes off the area.

“Come on you coward…” he whispered.

Calling out in Swahili he derided his perceived opponent, “Magic and spells and other nonsense won’t scare me Witch!”

He readjusted his aim before continuing, “I’ve got a large gun and I will put you in the ground!”

To his right he heard what sounded like feet landing on the forest floor.

‘There he is… come on you bastard… make my day.’

Without indicating he had heard the drop Henry waited, just to confirm the footsteps.

A stick cracked loudly and there was a stifled hiss.

‘There you are…’

Suddenly Henry pivoted.

He saw a… a figure shimmering.

“What in gods’ name?” he said under his breath.

The figure began to step forwards and its eyes glowed.

‘Its eyes glowed!’ his thoughts repeated.

Without any more hesitation Henry pulled his trigger and fired.

The shimmer moved with great speed, dodging to the left.

The shotgun roared and fired its slug past the shimmering target and towards the boabs behind it.

Adjusting Henry’s aim he mentally didn’t allow his first miss to affect his second shot.

‘There you’ll be you bastard!’

He mentally calculated the speed and trajectory of his near-invisible target and as he exhaled pulled his second trigger.

The left barrel of the shotgun roared and rattled as its slug flew down and towards the centre of the shimmering shape.

Henry dropped his shotgun and immediately reached for his holster.

The slug must have hit it because he heard the loudest and most bone-chilling roar he’d ever heard his whole life.

Pulling his Webley from her leather home Henry momentarily lost sight of the shimmer.

“W-where’d it go!?” he asked.

Pulling back the hammer of his pistol he waited.

‘What the hell was that!’ His thoughts screamed.

‘I just saw a ghost… I just saw a ghost…’ he began to repeat.

His arms shook and his eyes twitched, “I saw the dead… I saw it…” He began to repeat under his breath.

‘Good God… I saw it… I saw a demon…’

His eyes glanced over to the camp and his spine rippled with a cold sensation.

‘The witch…’

Standing Henry tentatively looked past where he had shot.

‘I’ve got to run… I’ve got to get the bloody hell out of here…’

Quickly bending over Henry holstered his pistol and picked up his shotgun.

Opening the breach he removed the spent shells and immediately loaded two new ones.

“Where’d I come in…” he whispered.

Looking to his right he looked at the seemingly mark-less area for any indication of where he had entered from.

His chest heaved with quick breaths before he finally saw the base of the ridge.

“There!” he cried.

Before moving he looked back to where he had fired, scanning for any sign of the shimmer.

‘Okay…’

‘Go!’

Abandoning his hat Henry sprinted towards the opening in the foliage where he had entered and he began the climb up the steep ridge.

‘Just keep running!’ his thoughts encouraged.

A voice in the back of his mind added to the chant, ‘Keep running Henri… Mon Henri… Vite Henri.’

…

Sitting on the edge of the bed in his rented room Henry watched as Sophie fixed him another drink.

“You’re a hunter?” she repeated.

Henry exhaled some smoke from her cigarette and nodded, “Aye… Lions, tigers, leopards… the cats mostly, though I’ve bagged much other African game…”

His voice had no pretentious ego to it, he was merely describing his job as she had asked him…

But despite his answer she seemed disappointed.

Sophie pursed her lips, “I rather like cats…” she said dejectedly.

He pinched the cigarette in his lips and laughed while he unbuttoned his shirt.

“So do I, but the big ones are killers…”

He laughed at his joke.

She furrowed her tightly groomed eyebrows in confusion, obviously missing the word play he had made.

She sipped his drink and stepped closer towards him,

“Don’t worry about it…” he said before handing back her cigarette.

They traded the smoke for the drink and shared a smile.

“So… why are you here?” she asked, her tone was blunt and uncharacteristic for a courtesan.

Henry chuckled.

“Well…”

Her eyes watched him.

“It’s not for what you think…”

She furrowed her brow and took a half step back in disbelief.

“Oh really?” she asked.

Henry nodded.

“I want you to rub my arms… And I want you to talk with me…”

She stayed quiet but her face said more than her words could.

“I’m serious.” Henry stated.

“You’re beautiful yes… but that’s not why I’m here.”

She pushed out her lips and took a drag of her cigarette, speaking as she did so. “I’ve had stranger requests… but,” she exhaled through her nose and smiled, “That’s certainly an odd one…”

Henry smirked and took a long sip of the drink before placing the glass onto the end table beside the bed.

With his hands free he turned and began to lie down. Groaning as he moved he agreed; “I’m sure you have…”

She finished her cigarette and walked to the room’s window.

Flicking the butt through the open glass panes she turned back to Henry and sat on the bed with him.

“What would you like me to talk about?”

She began to rub her small diminutive fingers along Henry’s scarred back.

He sighed at her touch and then exhaled loudly, “What would you suggest?”

She laughed, “I had a man who once asked me to read to him after…”

Henry laughed, “Really?”

“Oui… He’d bring a book with him and fall asleep as I’d read it.”

Henry smirked.

“What would the books be?”

She smiled as she recalled, “La Legende des siecles.”

Henry furrowed his brow.

“It’s by Monsieur Hugo.”

Henry remained quiet.

The courtesan’s voice changed in disbelief, “Les Miserables? Le Notre-Dame de Paris? Victor Hugo?”

Henry shook his head.

She moved her fingers off his back and sat up from the bed.

“It’s in French, but… Would you mind? Before he left he gave me a copy of Notre-Dame de Paris.”

Henry chuckled, “Not at all.”

The young woman smiled and reached over him, taking a worn, leather bound, book out of the end table.

With one hand she rubbed Henry’s left shoulder and with the other she placed the book beside him and flipped to the first page.

Clearing her throat noiselessly she began; “La Grand’salle… Il y a aujourd’hui trois cent quarante-huit ans...”

…

Henry panted as he mounted the top of the ridge’s edge.

‘Come on old boy… keep going… no ghost’ll take you yet… There’ll be a dry bed in Bedlam for you if that were so!’

He tried to stay focused but the fear of what he’d just seen began to really settle in.

“Just what the hell was that…” he asked himself quietly.

Behind him, under the canopy of the boabs, he heard a loud rumbling roar.

‘That was no lion…’ his thoughts confirmed.

‘That was no beast I’ve ever heard before…’

His hair stood on end along his arms and he turned bringing his shotgun to bear again.

‘I’ve shot rhino, elephant, bear, tiger, lion, leopard, bison, water buffalo, cheetah, jaguar… and I’ve seen nearly every other large game on this earth…’

He shivered.

‘There’s nothing I know that can make that sound…’

‘George… just what in Gods’ name did you find out here?’


	6. Amour Fou

 

“You’re not married Monsieur Henri?”

Sophie lit another cigarette and turned the page of her book.

Henry groggily came to and raised his eyebrows while turning his head to see his companion.

He chuckled, “You sure do ask some odd questions for a working girl…”

She exhaled smoke and responded bluntly as Henry noticed was her habit.

“You’re the one using a whorehouse for conversation.”

He laughed and rolled to his side.

“I suppose that’s true.”

He held out his hand and she offered him her cigarette.

“Well.” He started.

After taking a drag he continued, “I was to be married a long time ago.”

Sophie cooed sarcastically, “Did she leave my handsome Henri at ze altar?”

Henry smirked, “No… it was sudden but.”

He stopped.

“I realised I didn’t love her…” he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

“And I knew I wasn’t going to love her… We were marrying for the wrong reasons I suppose.”

Sophie kept her fingers on her page but furrowed her brow as she quietly listened.

After a moment of quiet Sophie drew on her cigarette and the paper crackled as it burned.

“So… my Henri left her?” she finally asked.

Henry looked at Sophie and smiled, “I suppose I did…”

“She got sick a few weeks after… cholera.”

Sophie’s features softened and she involuntarily exhaled in surprise. “Oh…”

She paused and watched Henry’s stern expression. Her chest tightened and she felt compelled to be herself for a moment:

“Je suis desole Henri…”

His face softened just a bit, and his voice became rather sombre as he elaborated, “I received word of it about a month after she had passed, I was in Africa…” he hollowly laughed.

“We were fighting some Askari, and some…” he narrowed his eyes as he began to recollect the battle, “Oh well I’ll be damned… Some Krauts.”

He smiled, picturing the scene and pleased that he could still remember it.

“Yes it was this small band of wandering Askari and German raiders.”

He smirked and rubbed his eyes.

“The chaps had taken to murder and rapine pillaging… all up and down the borders.”

Sophie’s voice changed and her tone became excited, she’d hoped to turn the conversation, and test her _Henri_

“So you’ve hunted men as well?” she asked.

Her eyes flickered with a strange intensity, and the smoke from her cigarette circled around her head, swirling past her blond braid.

Henry watched her expression for a quiet moment.

“Aye…” he finally admitted.

His chest compressed as he exhaled a sigh, and clarified; “I have.”

She smiled and bared her teeth, “and how does it compare?”

Henry raised an eyebrow slightly.

“To les chats?” she clarified. “I’m sure the hunting of pour fellow hommes presents a more…” she paused as she formed the most appropriate word.

“ _Liberal_ , challenge?”

Henry shook his head and his voice became low, “There is nothing worse…” he finally declared.

“Monsieur Henri…” Sophie’s face changed and she visibly deflated.

Her features became serious and she leaned back from her companion.

“You’re probably the most honest man I’ve ever had with me…”

He smiled in disbelief; “Why’s that?” he asked.

She shook her head and her features lifted genuinely, “You haven’t lied to me once, yet.”

She stood up and flicked her cigarette out the window again.

“I can always tell…” she began, “Le Infantry du Le Republic Gendarmes is quartered not far away from here every spring…”

“The soldiers I’ve met…” she chuckled, “Young, ambitious, and every one of them a liar.”

She sat back onto the bed and took up Henry’s left arm.

Squeezing either side of the forearm she began to massage his skin and the thick, tight, muscles underneath.

Henry took a breath and shut his eyes.

“The way they talk you’d think they were fighting as part of Les Gran Armee!” She laughed again.

“They’d want you to believe that each of them was the next Napoleon.”

She shook her head, “and the way they’d talk about fighting…”

She scoffed, “It was like a… like an…” she looked up in frustration, “Quoi c’est ‘jeu’ en Anglais?”

“Game” Henry answered.

“Oui, c’est game… These boys, they think it’s all just a game…”

Running her thumbs along Henry’s scarred arm she sniggered, “I suppose it’s because they all come from ‘Le Nouvel Argent’… provincials being swept into Paris, or… or Lyon, or Nantes…”

Henry laughed, “I assure you I met more than my fair share of those lads from London, Bath, and Leeds.”

Her voice became heavy as she seemingly ignored Henry’s comment.

“They don’t know what killing is really like…”

Henry opened his eyes and watched her.

She paused and looked back at him.

“What is Afrique like?” she asked meekly.

“It’s beautiful… wild. Not a building to be seen for miles and if you take a short walk it’ll be days till the next station.”

She smiled painfully. “Though it’s right across from us… I dream about taking a ship to Algiers…”

“I know it’s just a few Francs… and I could easily make the trip a dozen times” her smile drooped and she looked away from Henry’s face.

“I should just do it maybe?” She asked.

“I’ve not been to French Africa but… I wouldn’t suggest anyone go unless they’re with someone who knows the continent.”

She looked back at Henry and wordlessly her eyes seemed to ask: ‘Like you?’

Sophie smiled slyly and looked back to her work.

Henry quietly watched her continue to massage up towards his bicep.

His thoughts were blank and he mulled over her silent expression.

‘Like me?’ he asked himself, ‘Someone like me…’

He shuddered, ‘I’m old enough to be the girl’s father…’

…

Kul’Kah stumbled over a thick root as he hid from his target.

Henry’s second shot had actually hit the Yautja and the alien’s side was leaking blood and a strip of his skin hung loosely from the wound.

‘Good…’ he thought as he managed his pain.

‘A challenge! Yes!’ he chanted excitedly.

Though the slug had blown straight through the right side of his abdomen Kul’kah knew that it wasn’t a mortal wound.

He’d make it… and this pain was nothing but a well-earned lesson.

His opponent was a skilled hunter… an intelligent hunter…

‘Someone worthy of my metal…’ Kul’kah clicked his tusks and croaked out loud in anxious anticipation.

‘He hit me!’ he thought in disbelief.

He chuckled and leaned against a thick boab as he looked down to inspect the wound.

‘The human actually hit me…’

The slug stopped Kul’kah’s momentum when it struck him and his eyes opened widely.

At first he didn’t really understand the feeling.

He’d never been shot by a human weapon before…

The last time he was on earth the weapons the humans had were primitive… very basic and the only challenge when hunting them was if you stripped yourself down to their level.

Handicapping yourself as a hunter was always dangerous but, no one could deny that it exponentially increased the thrill and the sport to be had.

Kul’kah panted as he tried to calm down his breathing and his heart rate.

‘What will he do next?’ he asked himself.

He clicked his tusks in a chuckle.

‘What will _I_ do next?’

He cringed in pain.

‘After this…’

He touched his side and felt his blood run over his fingers.

‘Yes after this…’

…

Henry leapt over a boulder and some shrubbery blocking his path, and he continued a quick pace as he tried for the dry riverbed dissecting the valley.

He briefly shot a glance upwards to note the position of the sun.

‘Still got time old boy… still got time…’

His tongue dryly scrapped the back of his throat and his wet clothes clung awkwardly to his body.

‘I’m going to be attracting every bloody gnat and horsefly this side of Mombasa for Christs’ sake.’

Shaking his legs out mid stride he tried to loosen the tight grip the pants had gotten since their soaking.

Though he wanted to get away as fast as possible he was disregarding a cardinal law of the savannah…

_Never run_

“Shit!” he called out loudly.

Digging his heels into the soil below him, Henry, unceremoniously, came to a halt.

Stilly he looked over his shoulder and did a full spin and scan of his surroundings.

‘Just calm the breathing… come on now.’

With his hands tightly on his weapon he looked through the swaying and moving grass for anything larger than his thumbnail.

The voice of Henry’s Corporal of Horse bellowed loudly in his memory; ‘If you see anything in your field of vision larger than your thumbnail, get your rifles ready lads!’

The first night he ever spent in the African wilds he and his regiment camped by the side of a ravine… A mistake they wouldn’t repeat.

At the time Henry was posted as a sentry and he and his fellows quickly found out that a water source at night was a bad place to be.

Hippos, despite their size, are surprisingly fast, and surprisingly aggressive.

He still doesn’t know how no one was killed, but they had lost a horse, one of their baggage wagons, and several tents before they finally got out of the way of the rampaging hippopotamuses.

It was an important lesson…

Here nothing could be given an inch of leniency.

And Henry had allowed his fear of the unknown monster he’d shot at override his well-drilled training.

‘Slowly… no running old boy no running…’ he repeated to himself.

His chest heaved as he tried to reign in his breathing.

‘One foot after another…’ he nodded, ‘Slowly… but with purpose.’

Stepping over the dry ruin of an anthill Henry continued his steady pace, making sure to keep his head on a swivel and his weapon at the ready.

After a few minutes his calf began to tighten and give him grief.

‘Just had to hop the rock didn’t you?’ he asked himself.

He paused and kneeled down to give his legs a momentary reprieve.

“Not good…” he whispered.

The sudden strain of the jump and short sprint had pulled either a tendon or a muscle in his calf.

As soon as he took a step forwards he knew that it would proceed to be a bitch the whole way back to the station.

He looked up towards the sun, judging the time again.

‘You’re not even at the riverbed yet…’ he finally admitted.

A shadow moved through the air and he squinted reactively as his chest tightened.

“Ha!” he announced.

‘It’s just a bloody bird…’

Rubbing his forehead with his left hand he wiped off a layer of grime and sweat.

‘Had to lose the pith didn’t you?’

Shaking his head from side to side his sweat-damp hair fell out of its flattened place.

“Come on…” he groaned as he stood.

‘The leg’ll have added maybe half an hour at most…’

He cringed as he resumed his stride.

‘Avoiding the hills… staying on the lowland. We should be back before night…’

Hopping, Henry missed a spot of uneven earth and rocks.

Smiling to himself he nodded, ‘If I don’t sprain my bloody ankle that is!’

…

“Adimu…” George called.

His voice was ragged and he had regained consciousness for the moment,

“My boy… Where’s Juliet?”

He stirred under his thin and sweat soaked sheet.

As all his strength had left him his stirring nearly made him pass out again and he began choking on his own breath.

“Juliet…”

The young boy Adimu sat watching George with pain in his eyes.

He’d seen men hurt before, the results of cattle accidents… He’d seen broken arms, but nothing as pathetic as the state that his George had been reduced to at the present…

Adimu had seen George do great feats… He’d seen the white man lift a fully grown female impala above his head, and he’d seen him laughing as he competed with Adimu’s fellow villagers.

George had introduced cricket to Adimu and the other children and they’d become immediately smitten with the sport.

Though he’d never seen a true game of it except once…

Shortly after Mister George had arrived to Adimu’s village a patrol of khaki uniformed British stopped for a day, quartering in the British station house.

By then George had already endeared himself to the children…

Adimu’s heart rose as he recollected the game…

George set up in a clearing near the village what he called, ‘model wickets’ and indeed it was both a textbook and regulation-certified cricket field.

Then he and the other children watched in awe as the British men played…

He’d never seen George move the same way since.

The burly mountain of a man moved with speed and skill, shouting to his team mates as they coordinated and reacted to their opponent’s strategies…

The sound of the ball in flight after the pitch, the silence before the batting, and the crack afterwards…

Adimu and the children barely understood what was happening but it was magic all the same.

He loved the game, and to watch George and his fellows play was a great treat, and to Adimu he had as much joy as when the village gathered for New Year’s celebrations.

After the game George professed that they were all amateurs… A word that Adimu and the other children then demanded to learn the meaning of.

George laughed and he explained, like in his lessons, what the term meant.

The children all refused to believe that the British soldiers were simply amateurs, and that the game they watched was simply as a pastime.

Adimu wanted to smile at the memory… but George heaved loudly as he took a breath and it brought the boy back to the present.

Here was his hero…

Strong, fast… smart… and kind

To Adimu George had been so kind… every word the gentleman shared was encouraging. At every turn George would descend to Adimu’s level and offer him guidance or aid at what he was doing.

But beside all that, George was lying in front of the boy.

And he was dying.

‘Why are you so nice to me Mister George?’ Adimu had asked him once.

The handsome George had to pause, he smiled and he laughed nervously. ‘Well my boy…’ He began.

Nearly all his sentences regarding a question began with such a preface.

‘My Juliet and I, we lost our first child.’ His tone was matter of fact and he looked straight ahead, having rehearsed and said the line to the point of banality.

He didn’t look back at Adimu.

‘If…’ he continued, ‘if our child lived, I imagine that they’d have been about your age.’

He finally looked at Adimu.

‘Perhaps not so skinny,’ he smiled and patted the side of Adimu’s arm.

Adimu smiled. Though he didn’t really understand what George’s emotions and stoic expression meant, the boy did know that he shouldn’t ask the man anything more.

The memory flew as quickly as it came and Adimu felt compelled to throw off his idleness.

‘I’ve got to do something!’ he cried in his mind, ‘Anything! Mister George needs me!’

His voice entered the quiet room full of zeal, it cracked with fear but at the same time it showed a mature resolve in the young boy.

“I know Mister Henry will get the beast, Mister George…”

Adimu leaned forwards and took up the bowl of water and the stained and bloody wetting cloth from beside the lying George.

“As soon as he gets the beast you will get better…”

He nodded and tried not to look at George’s wounds.

The man’s eyes fluttered and he groaned in pain.

But under the man’s whiskers Adimu saw a flash of his ivory teeth.

Whether it was a wince or a smile he couldn’t tell, but Adimu knew he preferred to have seen his friend’s smile to his pain.

Adimu nodded again and stood, the boy was going to go dump the bowl and get fresh cool water, as he walked out of the room he whispered to himself, “I know this.”

…

Author’s note:

Thank you all so much for reading, I’m glad for the following this little idea of mine has gotten and I hope that you’ve enjoyed it so far.

More is to come, and as always if you’ve got suggestions, questions, or if I’ve made errors or plot contradictions please point them out, thank you!

Lots of love,

VV


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